Game Over
by Truthful Little Lies
Summary: "He didn't know what to do. Why would he? He was dying and his betrayer was still alive. All he could do was hope for the best and wish for death to be quick.." Roach's final moments before burning to death. T for violence.


**Small one shot I though before going to bed. I hope you'll like it everyone! Good night!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. 'Nuff said.**

**Sgt. Gary Roach Sanderson**

**22nd British Regiment; Reassigned**

**[Task Force 141]**

**[[Loose Ends]]**

"_You got the DSM?"_

"_Yes sir."_

"_Good. That's one less loose end."_

He couldn't move. He couldn't breath. He couldn't even have the power in winning out the suffocating darkness that threatened to engulf. The heavy pounding of his heart was heard in his ears and Roach swore everyone around a five mile radius could hear him gasp in pain. Adrenaline had shot into his veins but there was only so much his body could do to numb the anguish in his body and clear his scrambling thoughts. His mind was raging, his emotions stirring him and giving him power to at least see the bastard's face as he got to his knees and retrieved the DSM.

A sadistic smile spreads out from the old man's withered face as he knowingly pats Roach's body, stepping about and not trampling on the young soldier's mangled legs. His fingers weren't as kind as he had traced the bullet hole, threatening to do more damage than what had already been done. Whilst his will had shouted him to do something- anything- Roach had depleting energy left and all he manage was a painful hiss.

_Young and naïve but good enough_. Roach could've sworn he heard the General's familiar first words in his head. Roach had done good- no, not only good, he was great- the best there were till his immediate transfer to the known prima donna squad. Or, as he manages to think about it, Shepherd's used lap dogs. _Good enough_, yeah that's what Roach was used to hear after risking his ass in Afghanistan and nearly getting mauled by the terrorist groups who were bent upon his death.

Roach mentally reclined at the thought of him being back in the hands of those masochistic minds of beings I couldn't describe as people. It had been so close for them to Roach's demise. He'd been into far too worst situations and he managed to overpower his captors before they realize how much of a threat he was rather than a hostage. After that, Roach thought he was ready for anything thrown his way, for any bad guys he'd have to face in the future.

And yet here he was, surprised, barely clinging to life as he choked on his own blood. The bullet had definitely grazed an artery, the way it pooled so much in so little time. He was sure it was also his own blood that clog out his lungs, the way he was tasting the coppery material in his mouth as he coughed it out. He used to think he'd die a more heroic death than this, drowning on land and at the hands of your own friend, but fate didn't listen to him as it rarely did. He only manage to dodge it's calls so many times, owning his call sign- Roach- as he did before it would ultimately catch up with him. In a way, maybe his disposition now is them saying a person could only live for so long.

As a soldier, it was a great risk to live in the borderline of life and death everyday. But he had always had it into mind to protect everyone back home as his brothers and sisters in arms did. He needed to protect the people, and the children the produce- children they carefully taught to not make the same mistakes Roach had done. A generation they had always hoped was better than the greedy, corrupt men that led the world right now, as the current one was hoped before. Men like Shepherd as he motions two soldiers- no, soldiers are defender of lives and these are mere puppets- to move him.

Someone roughly grabs Roach's hands and feet, swinging him with no care and throwing him on a small ditch. He could just comply like a tossed rag doll as the ground approached his face in alarming rate, the impact of his nose and the damp soil nothing as unpleasant as the bullet in his chest. His landing made him gasp for more air, and in return, a trickle of blood flowed freely from the corner of his mouth. Now the black spots are closing in on him and the sweet promise of painless sleep waves into his thoughts. All hope of being rescued from his imminent doom gone as how he knew the body of his allies, his friends' lay waste back into Makarov's safe house. It was all over. The game is all over…

FRIENDS? _GHOST!_

Roach's eyes snap open, blood shot and alert. His eyes search frantically for his commanding officer, only to see him lay waste like his own body, being thrown like garbage. Ghost's skull adorned balaclava faced him and Roach had hoped the way Ghost's eyes were rolled back into his head was only a ruse. _Ghost has a plan_, Roach screamed at himself, trying not to die. _He always has a plan. DAMMIT, HE ALWAYS SAVES THE DAY._

Roach shook his head off the words he knew he would break down if he said it out loud. Ghost, he was a friend. One of the soldiers that took the young soldier under his wing even though he knew he'd suffer from the endless yapping of the sergeant. He who drowned himself in mystery and silence but cared enough for every individual soldier in the Task Force, Ghost always had a plan. He didn't know how to love, he told everyone during that boy's night out, he never would and he'd spent the nights with women only for pleasure, that's that. But Roach knew he learned how to love the demeanor of the group now, one way or the other. How couldn't he when, as Roach noticed, every death under their belt would lead the man temporarily in a daze, how he risked his own life as he dragged Roach into the exfill point, how he at least tried to shoot the damn bastard for placing a bullet into the soldier's body. It was- one way or another- a short form of friendship, a small relationship built on the everyday risk, the shared cigarette packs at slow nights and the talks of would have been lives if they didn't answer the call of duty.

Roach felt the impact of it. He had admired the dead man by his side. He didn't realize it, when he ranted about his girlfriend back in London until he was threatened a gun, when he placed a raccoon inside Meat's bag, and not even when Ghost had pulled him by the vest back as a mortar exploded right where his feet was. He admired the man and how he had own his life to him for so many times. Even as the skull on his friend's face grinned at him mockingly, he didn't avert his gaze from his friend's face.

Roach choked as he tried to cough out the wetness in his mouth when he realized someone was pouring a can of liquid on him. Gasoline. Its scent had made him wrinkle his nose and a Shadow Company officer actually broke into a smile before tossing the can away. Shepherd's face swam into view and there was a sense of confidence in his stance that Roach, as sweet as he is, wanted every style of torture brought to the man- and the thought had scared him, yes- but it had cleared his mind to.

"_Ghost, do you read me, do not trust Shepherd, I repeat do not trust Shepherd- Soap-"_

Kind of late for that old man, Roach wanted to say, but he was too busy glaring at the demon in front of him to actually say it, the blood loss already affecting him. The weight of his stare could've scared an enemy shitless, but Shepherd merely gave a dry chuckle as he took a long whiff of his cigar. Roach, at the back of his mind, did not want the man to smoke. He didn't want the man to have lung cancer. No, lung cancer was far too peaceful- far too painless for a traitor like him. If it was his way, Roach wanted him to take a bullet to the arms, then to the legs and as he bled out, he'd be given a blood transfer then be shot over and over again.

But he didn't have his way, didn't he? The old man was still standing and Roach could only wish he wasn't. Well, it is the end isn't it? They were dead, and this man would still live another day. Roach could only hope Price and Soap could survive, they'll know what happened, they'll let this old man's legacy fall short.

Because for now, Roach's game was over.

As Shepherd flicked his cigar, into the clearly soaked body of Roach and Ghost, time might as well admit it slowed down. Roach's life, like an overly used cliché, flashed before his eyes. He saw his parents waving him off for an Afghan tour, he saw the SAS's welcoming arms and finally, before the flames emerges and sucked out his life, he saw his girlfriend smiling back at him. And then there was none. Because there was no more Gary 'Roach' Sanderson.

He didn't even know how much the word will change because of it.


End file.
